


Sunday Morning

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleepy Sherlock dozes in bed on Sunday morning when John appears bearing tea, but is he John or Dream John?</p>
<p>Mostly just fluff I wrote while feeling soft and sleepy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know when this is set, either series 2 or post series 3 when Mary is dead/in prison/on the run/whatever. Point is, Mary's not anywhere to be seen.

It is almost 10 on a Sunday morning. The sun is shining outside, warm golden light filtering through the curtains. Soft sounds of London drift on the air, traffic, voices from the pavement, too quiet to distinguish any words, every now and then a distant siren from an ambulance or police car. Life as normal continuing outside, but this little space is a world removed, a little cocoon of warmth and ease.

Sherlock lies on his side in bed, his hair a mass of messy curls on the cream pillowcase, the duvet pulled right up to his chin. His body is relaxed, warm and cosy. His limbs feel heavy with peaceful lassitude. For once his mind is quiet, he is dozing, slipping in and out of a light sleep, completely content. The last case had been solved the previous night, just interesting enough to hold his attention and although it had ended in a footchase through some alleys, there had been no dangerous criminals to worry about, and a large paycheck in reward for recovering the missing artworks, enough for several months rent. So he is content, fully rested after 11 hours of sleep to catch up on the previous few nights. There are no bodily needs that are pressing enough to break this tranquility and nothing he needs to do today.

He just drifts, his thoughts soft and gentle, flitting idly around nothing in particular, until he hears the sound of John coming down the stairs from his bedroom. His sleepy brain latches onto John as a centre for his thoughts. The sounds of John moving through the flat, straightening up the mess, cupboards opening and closing as he puts away the clean crockery and cutlery from the drainer, the sounds of the kettle as he begins making tea. John, his John, perfect John, in the flat where he belongs, together, the two of them together. So domestic, so lovely, just them. Sherlock slips into a dream where John is his, truly his, and is coming back to bed any minute with tea for them to share, half waking he hears gentle sounds of a spoon clanking against the sides of a mug as tea is stirred and smiles to himself, drifting once more into sleep to dream of John. He smells tea and cannot be sure if he is dreaming or not, opening his eyes he sees John in the doorway holding a steaming mug. John sets the mug down on the bedside table and leans over to ruffle Sherlock's hair.

"Up you get sleepy head, I'm making breakfast." He says fondly, his lips tilting upwards in a small smile.

Sherlock's eyes are slightly out of focus, as he looks at what must be Dream John. He gives a sleepy lopsided smile, but makes no move to get up.

John sighs and smiles indulgently, then kneels down next to the bed and returns his hand to Sherlock's head, curling his fingers gently to grasp the tangled curls lightly.

"Are you in there lazy bones? Come on, I've got bacon and eggs."

Dream John is perfect. Tea, bacon, eggs, his lovely hair, now more speckled with silver than gold. His gorgeous face, every wrinkle showing his life, the hardships he has lived through, his bravery and fortitude in the face of it. He smells of tea and home. 

Watching him in soft focus Sherlock's eyes flick down to Dream John's lips and back up to his eyes, they are crinkled around the edges in an expression of complete happiness and acceptance. Sherlock's eyes travel back to Dream John's lips, they are the perfect shade of pink and slightly parted. A warm gust of air issues from them, they are so close that Sherlock can feel it against his cheek. He pulls his arm lose from the covers and cups Dream John's cheek in the palm of his hand. The warmth of his skin, the way his lips tip further into an amused grin make it impossible for Sherlock to resist the urge to lean over, closing the small gap between them and pressing his lips softly against those of Dream John. It is perfect, just as it is every time he dreams of this moment, the gentle pressure and soft skin, lovely. Sherlock's eyes close as he presses his lips forward little more firmly. He feels Dream John tighten his fingers slightly, catching in tangles and pulling gently on the hair, and suddenly he is gone. Sherlock snaps his eyes open and sees that John has only moved back about three inches, but it is an unbridgeable chasm, because with this movement John has done something that Dream John never has and Sherlock now fully awake realises his monumental error. He gasps in terror and pulls the duvet up to completely cover his face, unable to face John after accidentally showing him the depth of his feelings. He closes his eyes as a further barrier to reality and tries to stay still in the (admittedly unrealistic) hope that John will forget he is there and go away.

Instead Sherlock hears the unmistakable sound of John giggling. John still has one hand gently grasping his hair, but his other hand is now attempting to pull the covers away from Sherlock's face, strong fingers prising insistently. 

He tries to resist, wants to hide, but John continues to pull firmly and after a few seconds Sherlock gives up and relinquishes the duvet, allowing his face to once more be exposed. He opens his eyes and expects to see anger or confusion on his friends face, what he sees instead takes his breath away. John moving closer to him before a firm kiss is pressed against his forehead, then another on his cheek, and a final one against his lips, starting chaste but then a very brief feeling of warm wetness tracing across the seal of his lips before it is gone and John pulls away.

"Now, come on sleepy head. Breakfast." John says fondly.

Sherlock stares, unable to process what is happening. John sighs and smiles, leans in for another soft kiss. Sherlock feels his heart beat faster as he realises that his impossible dreams are not so impossible after all, the unrequited becomes requited, his wishes come true. They break apart and gaze into each others eyes with matching looks of contentment upon their faces.

John takes Sherlock's hand and gently tugs saying "Come on you, if you're good I might even make some fried bread." It is the easiest thing in the world for Sherlock to allow himself to be led out of his room, hand in hand with the man he loves, to a life that is very much like the one he fell asleep to last night, but is simultaneously completely different in the most wonderful way.

**Author's Note:**

> After a busy few days when I woke up this morning I felt like Sherlock feels at the start of this fic. In the absence of John Watson in my house instead of spending my day on kissing and cooked breakfasts I spent it writing this. I hope it was a good use of a day :-)


End file.
